I lie down to do my cruelty.
Peace may be my vertical
appearance, but my spurs
are sharp and jockey for position.
Flat on my back I cruel it up
until I’m burning hot under
the collar, but the burs don’t
shift, they stick and hook me raw
with wintergreen until
my cruelty grows more
and more. One day I’ll have
to kill it or be ridden deep
into the ground, six feet under
anything with roots or bulbs,
and carpeted with grass, but
for now, above the earth,
my limbs extend, luxuriant
and horizontal. I do
my cruelty lying down.